


escape the blade that cut you even

by blackkat



Series: Horoscope Drabbles [45]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, M/M, don't make deals with fey-like men in dark oak groves, that's not the moral of this story but it should be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-01-18
Packaged: 2019-10-12 09:43:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17465141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: “Back for more?” the sentinel in the shadows asks.Tajima doesn’t freeze, even though the instinct is there, the flicker of caught that’s bright like panic in his chest.





	escape the blade that cut you even

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Normal Horoscopes on Tumblr:
> 
> Aquarius: A grove of old oak trees. Fresh, clear water flows from knots in the trunks, pooling in the center of the clearing. Naturally occurring holy water not tied to any divine power.

“Back for more?” the sentinel in the shadows asks.

Tajima doesn’t freeze, even though the instinct is there, the flicker of _caught_ that’s bright like panic in his chest. Instead, he very deliberately comes to a halt, doesn’t try to hide the empty jug he’s carrying. Glances over, into the deep darkness beneath the oaks, and it takes a moment to pick out the figure there, as though he has no form for the first few seconds of Tajima's looking.

“There are still wounded in our clan,” he says, tries not to grip the handle too hard. It’s something precious, worth more than his life; the Uchiha as a clan don’t learn to heal more than the most basic injuries. It’s a point of pride, and whoever can't heal themselves doesn’t deserve the assistance of an outside medic. But­—water from a spring isn't reliance on another person. It’s allowed, can't be looked down upon, and this water is special in a way Tajima has never seen before. One sip can save a man.

There's no answer, but the sentinel steps forward into the light, and a second too slow the lines of his form come clear, as if the shadows cling to the sharp lines of his face, the cut of his shoulders and the fall of his robes. Dark earth-brown eyes slide from Tajima's face to the jug, and he lifts one brow.

Tajima thinks of his eldest, sick with the same illness that took the boys’ mother half a year ago. It’s the first time he’s ever seen Madara show weakness, and it terrifies him. The desperation is an ugly thing, tight and awful in his chest, and it drives him forward towards the sentinel, one hand on his sword even though he has no idea how a mortal blade will work on something so clearly other.

“Whatever god rules this place,” he says, “I’ll make the necessary sacrifices. I will give your master whatever he demands­—”

The man snorts, turns his head away to look at the pool between the oaks. The water flows from the knots in the trunks, perfectly clear as it runs into the depthless pool between the trees. “No god lives here,” he says dismissively. “This place is natural, not divine.”

Tajima falters, the words unexpected, hard to comprehend. The healing felt like a blessing, like a gift. If there wasn’t a god involved, not greater spirit—

“You seem surprised,” the man says, and this time it’s amused. He watches Tajima closely, and says, testing, “You look tired.”

Tajima's fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword. He’s been sitting up all night, waiting for Madara's fever to break, for three days now. There's been no change, though, and Tajima isn't sure whether the despair or the sleeplessness has been wearing at him more.

“I have five sons,” he says curtly. “That would be enough to drive the steadiest man mad.”

Something akin to surprise flickers over the sentinel’s face, and then he chuckles. It’s a warm sound, surprising given the stern cast to his features. “Four is more than enough already,” he says. “Five truly would be madness.”

Tajima blinks, startled, and almost steps back. _Spirit_ , he’d thought, looking at the man. Some immortal guardian, a creature not of this world, but—he said the spring was natural, not divine. There's no reason he wouldn’t be the same.

“Who are you?” he asks, and it comes out as a demand, sharp at the edges. “What kind of creature­ are you, then?”

Cool disdain touches that sharp face, and the man lifts a brow again, making Tajima want to flush. “Senju Butsuma. An ancestor made this spring,” he says, and reaches out, running his fingertips across the closest tree trunk. For a moment Tajima almost thinks he sees the bark ripple, the tree bend into the touch of Butsuma's hand. “My clan has guarded it for centuries.”

 _Centuries_ it’s been here, and all that time no one knew. All his life Tajima has seen death that could have been prevented if he’s only _known_. His breath shakes out of his throat, tight with the memory of his wife’s passing, and he has to close his eyes.

“Please,” he says, and Uchiha don’t beg, but Tajima would put clan above all else, and family above even that. Madara is dying, wasting away one fevered dream at a time, and there is no pride in Tajima's soul that wouldn’t bend in order to save his son. “My son is sick. A little more water and I can save him.”

Butsuma looks him over for a long moment, mouth tight, eyes dark. “And I suppose you want me to surrender it with nothing given in return,” he says flatly, but there's something in the set of his mouth that makes Tajima's heartbeat trip in his chest.

“What would you take for it?” he asks, and means it without reservation.

There's a moment of silence, as if the question surprised Butsuma. Then, slowly, he steps forward, and Tajima thinks he sees a flicker in the man’s reflection on the water, something with horns and long hair, not quite human. Or maybe not _just_ human. “A breath,” Butsuma says at length. “A gift from you to me, and a promise.”

A breath? Tajima hesitates, because he was expecting a demand of gold, of servitude. “And what will you do with a breath, once it’s given to you?” he asks warily.

Butsuma's smirk is a maddening thing, full of meanings Tajima can't quite catch. “Use it,” he says, as though it’s something that should be self-evident. “Yours was a lost bloodline, after Indra left. Ashura’s kin have been waiting to collect some piece of him for centuries, to bring the lines together once more.”

“That makes even less sense,” Tajima says, exasperated, but as soon as Butsuma opens his mouth, he raises a hand. “But you’ll give me water in return?”

“All you can carry, every time you visit,” Butsuma promises, and reaches out a hand.

For that, Tajima would give him everything. He takes the hand, lets Butsuma pull him in, and as the other man dips his head he realizes just how he’s supposed to share a breath.

The kiss is easy, deep. Butsuma tastes of cold, clear water and something green, and he steals the air from Tajima's lungs, gathers it away and leaves him entirely breathless. It feels like a gift, like a blessing even if nothing of this place is divine, and Tajima pulls back with his mouth raw and tingling, his heart beating hard in his throat.

Butsuma is slower to retreat, lingers for a moment with his eyes closed, a strange expression on his face. When his eyes finally slide open, they're touched with something _verdant._

“A deal,” he says, and his voice is rough enough to make Tajima shiver. “Take your water, then.”

Some mad instinct drives Tajima to open his mouth, even though he’s just been given everything he needs. “I’ll come back,” he promises, and is surprised to find he means it.

The faintest hint of a smile curves Butsuma's mouth. “Bring your sons next time,” he says. “Mine would like to meet them, I'm sure.”

Tajima thinks of Madara's face when he’s informed that he’s being taken to meet four boys who are if not spirits then something very close, and can't resist a smirk of his own. “I'm sure,” he drawls, and Butsuma's chuckle says he understands perfectly.


End file.
